Capable of Being Terrible
by EnjolrasLovedEponine
Summary: The barricade has been dismantled, the blood of the martyrs washed away, and Enjolras must leave Paris with Eponine Thenardier by his side. In the growing industrial city of Rennes, they must live together as Enjolras struggles to cope with his guilt and his failure while Eponine's past refuses to let her go. AU E/E
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: The beginning of this chapter was inspired by Katie Brown Eyes so give the respected credit to her. The rest of the story is from my crazed mind so I hope you all enjoy it! Also, the character personalities are from the book. I would like to mention though, I'm a bit stuck on whether or not I should make this a tragedy or a happy ending and I am a little stuck on plot so if any of you have any ideas or opinions, please feel from to pm me! I'd really appreciate your input! Enjoy!**

The rebellion was through, and it had evidently failed. The people did not rise. The barricade had been demolished, and those within perished as they all had planned and were willing to do for their country. Yet somehow during the chaos and the blood of battle, three managed to survive, not all of them men.

One among them was the revolutionary leader, Enjolras, the one most willing to lay down his life for France; he loved his country more than any man could love a woman. In fact, he wanted to die, to die for France and alongside his friends was the very meaning for his life, the greatest honor in his eyes. But he survived through means he did not know, could not remember, his memory fogged from the bullet wound in his shoulder which quickly led to infection, a high fever that kept him delirious and unable to piece together the moments on that fateful day and how he escaped.

Just as it was unknown to his friend Marius, a man named Jean Valjean saved the three who survived. He had carried the unconscious Marius over his shoulder and had a bloody girl in his grip, the girl Enjolras had spoken with only once and vaguely remembered, warning her to leave the barricade. She had been wearing men's clothes that day. She too had been shot and was losing a lot of blood. Valjean, with Marius on his back, led Enjolras and the girl through the sewers to freedom on the other side. He took all three of them to a hospital to be treated and paid generously for their care, insuring the best doctors to them, and said they were innocent bystanders that got caught in the crossfire of the battle. No one at the hospital questioned the rich man and did all they could and more for the three survivors.

Marius's grandfather, M. Gillenormand came to the hospital as soon as he heard word that his some had been admitted. When Marius came to and was able to speak, he couldn't tell his grandfather how he ended up at the hospital or who it was that saved him. All he knew was that he was alive along with his friend Enjolras and that street girl Eponine. He was grateful, truly, that at least one of his friends survived the horror of the barricade. Even if it was just one, one was enough to keep him from insanity due to such loss, such grief. But he knew their reunion wouldn't last long. It couldn't. The National Guard would be searching for the revolutionary leader.

So together at the hospital, M. Gillenormand and Marius planned to get his friend out of the city of Paris; Enjolras no doubt would be wanted for treason towards the government. But as he and his grandfather talked, Marius was reminded of the girl that saved him, Eponine. Even as she laid there, her head on his knees on the day she was shot at the barricade, he wasn't sympathetic, caring towards the gamine that took a bullet for him. He felt guilty for his lack of concern, lack of compassion. So to rid his guilt, to make up for his wrongdoings, he arranged for Eponine to travel with Enjolras to the west to Rennes, a two to three day trip by carriage.

That was how Enjolras came to be riding in a carriage with his right arm in a sling in the dead of night with a strange gamine he didn't know beside him. It wasn't an awkward ride. Eponine was silent next to him in the carriage, neither had anything to say to each other. The ride was quiet and almost pleasant except for the haunting visions of his friends. They called to him, asking why he survived while everyone else died. They tormented him with their cries of pain; he imagined them scowling down on him from Heaven, accusing him of abandoning them, abandoning all he stood for. Guilt racked his brain and did not fade even as the carriage entered the providence of Brittany to the city of Rennes.

The carriage stopped in front of a cottage as dusk came, Marius's summer home now Enjolras and Eponine's new residency. Their closest neighbors were a quarter of a mile away on either sides, a quiet and welcoming silence to Enjolras. It was a humble maison despite Pontmercy's social class, larder than Enjolras's apartment in Paris. The garden was lovely, spotted with flowers and well kept plants and bushes, vines growing up alongside the wall of the house, and wisteria dangling over the windows.

Taking the luggage inside with them, which consisted of only a single trunk, Enjolras's—being poor and living on the streets, Eponine didn't have anything with her except what she wore—the two explored the cottage; there were two bedrooms to Enjolras's relief—one with a desk for study which he gladly took—a kitchen and a small dinning room separated by a wall, one bathroom, and a living room with a sofa and end tables, and a bookshelf. There was a fireplace in the living room as well, and Eponine spoke for the first time at the sight of it, both to herself and Enjolras.

"Oh a fireplace! It's been so long since I've been around one, you see. When I was a child back at my parents' inn, we had a lovely fireplace, and Azelma and I used to sit by it and play with our dolls. Oh it was such fun with our dolls." Eponine continued on rambling as Enjolras walked through the house, observing silently, trying to block out the girl's insipid chatter.

The maison had already been stocked with linens, plates, and other necessary household items except for clothes. Enjolras and Eponine would have to buy them. Before leaving, the driver as instructed left with them a basket filled with wine, bread and begets, fruits, and deli meats, enough food for a small dinner, and five napoleons and 500 francs were left on the dining room table, kindly given by Marius and M. Gillenormand. It was enough for the two to live off of for a while until they found jobs.

Enjolras headed into one of the bedrooms, the one at the farthest end of the house and sat on the bed, heaving a sigh and holding his face in his hands, the weight of his failure bearing down on him. The thoughts of blood and the sounds of musket fire and bullets, the smoke and the canons, his fallen friends invaded his mind. Why had he survived? More than anything he wanted to die in battle for France, for his beloved Patria. He hadn't planned a life for himself after the June Rebellion, and now that he was alive, how was he to live? What was he to do?

"You and Eponine will live together," Enjolras remembered what Marius had told him. "You will be living in the Pontmercy's second house in Rennes. You can start a new life there; no one knows of your predicament here in Paris. You will be safe. But you will need to find a job. People may find it suspicious if you don't show your face and contribute to the city."

Enjolras had nodded to his once good friend, skeptical about sharing a home with some girl of the slums. But Marius had insisted that it was for her protection too although Enjolras couldn't see why she would need it. No one knew she was even within the barricade, but he agreed to it just the same. Even though Eponine would never have even made the list of people he'd choose to share a home with, she was indeed a better choice than that bastard Grantaire. Despite the drunkard's loyalty to him, Enjolras still couldn't stand the thought of him. Oh how he despised him.

"I will write to you when I can." Marius told him with a smile.

"I am in your debt," Enjolras said sincerely, "I cannot thank you enough for all you and M. Gillenormand have done."

Marius smiled a heartrending smile, "There is no debt. You would have done the same."

Enjolras's thoughts were interrupted as the girl's voice came to his ears.

"Monsieur."

He looked up to see the scrawny gamine standing in the doorway, her arms crossed, her shoulder leaning against the door frame. Her dark brown, nearly black hair was a tangled mess to her mid back. She wore a dingy, tattered, faded brown skirt and a loosely fitted white blouse—it was covered in dirt thus giving off a gray appearance. A black belt hugged her midsection that gave off the illusion that her outfit was a single piece. Not much to look at, Eponine. Even though she had a pretty face, the dirt and grime and ugly clothes hid it well.

"Dinner is ready. Come to the table. You must be hungry." She then turned and walked across the living room. Slowly, Enjolras followed her and sat down at the end of the table. The wine had been poured and the plates were filled with the food from Marius. But where was the cutlery? Enjolras was about to say something when he looked up to see Eponine eating with her hands. Though his expression remained hard and cold as usual, inwardly he was disgusted. But as he stared, he noticed her left hand was wrapped in gauze. How hadn't he noticed it before? Had something happened to her at the barricade? He shook the thought from his head, avoiding the struggle of trying to remember.

He ignored her lack of class as she ate with her hands. His mind wandered again back to his friends. He tried desperately to think of all the wonderful memories he had with them but all he could seem to bring to imagination were his friends' deaths. Bahorel, Feuilly, Jean, and Lesgle had been blown apart by the canons, their blood splattering over him. Courfeyrac, Joly, and Combeferre were banging on the doors within the barricade, shouting, pleading to be let in. They were all terrified. But what happened after that? More importantly, why couldn't he remember what had befallen him? This angered him, but Eponine snapped him out of his thoughts once again.

"Monsieur, come now you should eat! You haven't eaten since we left Paris, and that was nearly three days ago. Oh how miserable it is to be starving. I should know. You shouldn't submit yourself to it Monsieur."

He frowned, annoyed by her demands despite the fact she was only trying to help. He rose to his feet.

"I'm not hungry." He left the barely touched meal and walked back to his room, leaving Eponine alone.

That night Enjolras slept to his demons and nightmares. Repeatedly he watched and relived his friends' deaths, saw their pain and suffering, the fear and the screams, and all the blood. They cried to Enjolras, begging their dear Apollo to relinquish their suffering. But all the brave leader could do was watch in horror as his brothers crumpled and withered and screamed for mercy that would never come. Enjolras awoke in a cold sweat to his own screams. The room was dark and the house was quiet. How had Eponine not awakened to his violent screams? He sat upright in his bed, panting and trembling, the pain in his shoulder more intense than the previous day. His nightmares were getting worse.

Morning broke through the curtains that covered the window of Enjolras's room. As he started to wake he yawned, his body heavy and his eyes begging for more sleep. Slowly he rose himself out of bed and went outside to the water pump with a pitcher and a basin to retrieve water before going to the bathroom to wash up and prepare for the day. When he emerged and headed for the kitchen to fetch the filled pitcher where he had left it, he still felt exhausted despite the fact he slept. His shoulder ached and the pain spread all the way down to his fingertips. How frustrating, he thought. He poured himself a glass of water and took out the leftover bread and an apple from the night before and ate. It wasn't much, but it was more than he had last night. That was when he noticed the crowns and fancs left on the table. It was all still there. To his surprise, Eponine hadn't taken them; she was a gamine after all. That was when the thought came to him. They needed to go to the market for the day's meals. He sighed. He really didn't want to go into the city, especially not with Eponine. But the man had no choice. They had to eat. So he walked towards Eponine's room, the door cracked open just enough for him to see the mass of a sleeping girl in her bed. Deciding not to wake her, preferring to be alone anyway, Enjolras took the francs from the table, shoved them in his pocket, and walked out the door.

The sun shown strong and bright, and the sky was clear; Enjolras could faintly hear birds chirping. Rennes was so much more peaceful than the bustling streets of Paris that he was so accustomed to. Living on the edge of the city, the world around him didn't reek with the stench of the poor as Paris had. Somehow, the world away from Paris was cleaner, clearer. The darkness that shrouded Paris seemed to have little effect on other cities around France. Even though each city and town and village carried their own shadows, to Enjolras, none were as frightening as Paris. Living in Rennes would be easier, a nice change, he assumed with a bit of hope.

Enjolras struggled to meander his way through the crowds in the marketplace. People bumped into him, knocking into him, especially his injured shoulder making him stumble. Oh how quickly it all aggravated him. Eventually he was able to pick out the foods he wanted such as cheese, bread, fruits, and chicken and paid the venders. On his way back home, a few people passed glances his way just as they had when he walked to the marketplace. He simply assumed that the people of Rennes knew an outsider when they saw one. He did, after all, just move to the city. News travels wherever anyone goes. It's plainly something that can't be avoided.

When Enjolras returned home, he expected to see Eponine up and about, but she remained where he had left her, sleeping. He didn't care. He liked the silence, and he wasn't too fond of the girl's prattle anyway let alone her presence. He walked into the kitchen to stock the cabinets with the food he bought and the headed into the living room to browse the bookshelves. None of the books were worn. He would change that quickly and soon enough need more books. Plucking the one he found most appealing, he turned and nearly jumped at the sight of Eponine before him. She smirked at his reaction.

"Désolé Monsieur. Didn't mean to startle you." She mocked.

Enjolras merely frowned at her. She looked terrible. Her eyes were weary and there were purple rings under her eyes. How could she be tired when she slept so long?

"There's food in the kitchen," he stated, hoping she leave him to his book.

Instead of heading to the kitchen, she approached him and stuck out her finger to press it against the crease in his forehead, rubbing it in attempt to relax the muscle. She flashed him a childlike smile. There was a gleam in her eyes that irritated him. "If you continue to frown your face will stay like that."

Unimpressed, his eyes were cold as he stared at her and swatted away her hand. "I would appreciate it if you left me alone." Enjolras said harshly, no pleasantness in his voice.

Eponine's smile faded along with the glint in her eyes. She too began to glare at him, her eyes just as hard and unfeeling. "I can be just as ruthless as you Monsieur Enjolras." There was a bitterness in her tone that somewhat surprised him. Without saying any more, she turned for the kitchen while Enjolras retreated to his room thinking nothing of what she had said. Because he didn't care.


	2. Chapter 2

A month had gone by. Within that time Enjolras was able to find a job within the printing industry—workers were in high demand now that the printing business had begun in Rennes—but due to his shoulder wound and still needing the sling, his job was to work as the paperboy. He didn't like it and felt degraded by his position, but he understood his foreman's reasoning for placing him there. Once his wound healed and he was out of the sling, it wouldn't take long for him to move up and become a journalist, would it? Eponine, on the other hand, was unable to obtain a job that would accept her. Even though she was qualified for many different jobs due to her ability to read, she was a woman and on top of that, a woman with a hand injury. What good is a woman who can't use her hands? No one hired her. It was humiliating when she had to admit this fact to Enjolras.

"We still have the napoleons and a little more than a 300 francs. I'm also bringing in a bit of income." He informed, "Once your hand is healed it'll be easier to find a job."

Although he had said this, the shame did not fade from her face. She wanted to work, to feel useful, but that was impossible with her lame hand. And so, to avoid suffering from chronic boredom, while Enjolras worked, she toured around Rennes memorizing the streets and alleys, staring at the rich with their elegant suits and beautiful gowns. As she stared, she couldn't help but smile to herself. She was nearly like them. A little more than a month ago, she was in Paris struggling to feed herself. Now she was in Rennes and no longer hungry. How relieving it was not to be hungry and still have money to spare. To her, this relief made her royalty, a bourgeoisie.

As she wandered about Rennes, the sun shining on her back, the sky bright and blue and clear, she spotted Enjolras on his route selling papers. An older man of high social status placed in his hand 45 sous for a newspaper, and Enjolras with his stone like expression simply nodded with gratitude. Eponine's watchful eyes caught sight of a group of three bourgeoisie girls standing together, smiling and giggling at Enjolras who appeared to show no indication that the women were there. He's as blind as Marius, Eponine thought, her lips curling into a slight smile. She continued on her exploration, avoiding Enjolras's cold eyes, browsing about at the shops and little restaurants around the ever-expanding city. When his day was through at dusk, Eponine escorted Enjolras on his walk, a daily routine before they estranged themselves at their maison. On their walk, they exchanged bland pleasantries for a couple minutes before the awkward silence shrouded them. Once they were home and in separate rooms away from each other, they both relished the relief. For her, Eponine wasn't entirely sure why she felt this way; she often enjoyed her walks with Enjolras. Maybe it was his piercing eyes or his harsh tone that kept her on edge. Or maybe it was her inability to get him to open up to her, at least for a moment. They'd been living together for more than a month after all. Whatever the reason, whenever she was alone, the reprieve she felt without him consumed her.

Once with the walls of their residency, Eponine and Enjolras rarely spoke to each other. She would let him know when the dinner was ready—which he would take in his room each night—ask if there was ever anything he requested of her, and that was about it. She never asked for money and only took when he offered it. But just as much as there was a relief in the absence of him, Eponine could not shake the loneliness she felt, as if she was all alone in the house. It bothered her immensely, but she would never tell Enjolras.

As the days went by, Eponine could sense something was troubling the man of marble. He didn't speak on their walks home together and when she called him to dinner, he'd request to leave him a plate on the end table by the sofa closest to his door. He wouldn't retrieve it until hours later to only turn back to his room and eat it there. She wanted to ask what was bothering the man, but he seemed to have no desire in confiding anything in her so what was the point? If he wanted to lock himself up, so be it.

As she returned from her night strolls one evening, she spotted a candlelight coming from Enjolras's bedroom window. What was he doing up so late? He was never awake when she returned. Having decided to stay hidden, she crept over to the window and peered in, hoping to find Enjolras in bed so that she may sneak into the house undetected. But he wasn't. He was sitting on the floor as if he had collapsed, his head against the foot of the bed, his hand pressed against his forehead, unable to spot Eponine where he was in his current position. His breaths were sharp, and his chest rose swiftly with each breath. His once cold and serious eyes were now shimmering with tears, tears that stained his cheeks. Enjolras… Was crying. Eponine was shocked. The man she knew as the brave revolutionary leader, the man said to be carved from Grecian stone was crying. His shoulders sagged as his eyes shut and jaw clenched as more tears escaped his eyes. He wept, bitterly wept. For once for as long as she had been staying with him, Enjolras appeared human. He sobbed softly, trying to gather himself to no avail.

Eponine knew of nothing that would bring Enjolras to his knees. Nothing other than his failed revolution. She hadn't thought of the revolution since the two had arrived to Rennes, but as she stared at him, she was reminded of all that Enjolras had to lose. His friends, his home, his faith in the country he loved so much. Her heart ached for him. She thought of comforting him but decided against it. He would never want to see her, not in the state he was in. She knew he would be ashamed, humiliated. So instead, she sat underneath the window and hugged her knees as she waited for his light to go out.

Days turned to weeks and not once did Eponine confront Enjolras about his moment of weakness. She wanted to, but she knew it would only bring embarrassment to both of them. So she kept his secret to herself.

Once night while making dinner, Eponine wondered whether she should call him to retrieve his plate or leave it for him at his bedroom door. She had been leaving his food for him on the end table near his door since they began their lives together in Rennes. She would leave it there to discover it gone when she returned from her nightly walks. Each time she would wonder what he was doing all alone in his room. How could someone stay locked up for so long, away from human socialization all by choice? Eponine couldn't comprehend it.

She hated being lonely. She had been desolate for so long even before Paris. Once her father had become obsessed with tracking the man that took Cosette, she lost the love and compassion her family had blessed her with. She grew up alone even with her little brother and sister, miserable and aching for someone to talk to. That fundamental need for companionship fell on Marius when she lost Azelma and Gavroche. But now, with the revolution through and her family gone and Marius happily living with Cosette, all she had left was Enjolras who didn't even want to be around her.

Eponine gave out a sigh, deciding to do as she'd always done and leave his food for him. She took the plate in her hands, turned, and nearly jumped out of her skin to see Enjolras standing before her.

"Monsieur! You startled me."

He raised his hand and somewhat cringed at her voice. He was already frustrated with her and they hardly exchanged five words!

"Don't call me that anymore," he said curtly. "I've had enough with formalities. We've been living together long enough so we don't need to label each other anymore."

Eponine flushed and nodded shamefully in agreement; she said nothing as she stared at him. He looked ragged, his curly hair a tangled mess, his eyes heavy and in need of sleep, and bags and purple circles under his eyelids. His chin, upper lip, and up his jaw line were covered in stubble; his clothes were wrinkled, his chemise unbuttoned enough to see the top of his smooth chest, and his tie hung loose around his neck. Although his posture was tall and strong, his exhaustion was blatantly evident.

"Is that for me?" He asked, cutting into the silence.

"Oh, oui!" She had been holding his dinner in her hands the whole time. "I was just about to leave it out for you."

"No need, I'll take it."

Eponine frowned in confusion but handed his food to him nonetheless. She watched his as he took a place at the dinning table but left his food untouched. She turned back to prepare her meal, disregarding Enjolras's abnormal behavior, and with her food she left and headed for her bedroom as per routine.

"Eat dinner with me."

Eponine stopped in her tracks. Slowly, she turned to Enjolras and gazed at him in bewilderment. He did not look at her. He simply stared off straight ahead, his expression unreadable as usual. Eponine rarely could read his stone cold expression anyway.

"Pardon-moi?" She asked, unsure if she had even heard him correctly.

"Eat dinner with me." He repeated. It wasn't a question, and Eponine knew it.

She gave him a skeptical look before complying with his request. She sat down at the opposite end of the table and continued to eye him quizzically, waiting for him to speak, but he never did. He didn't even look at her. He just ate.

"Is there something you want?" Eponine asked, a little annoyed by his strange behavior.

He simply shook his head as he continued with his meal. She ate along with him but felt as if she were being suffocated by the awkward silence, though he didn't seem to mind. She hated it almost as much as she hated Enjolras ignoring her about his aberrant conduct; she held her tongue and did her best to bury her frustration.

For three nights this continued, eating dinner together in silence. They barely even exchanged glances at each other, and Eponine was reaching her peak of irritation. By the fourth night she couldn't take it anymore. She glared at him as he ate his dinner, he didn't even notice her piercing stare. Her jaw clenched, her nostrils flared, and her hands curled into fists. She stood to her feet.

"What has become of you?" She snapped furiously.

For the first time since they started their dinners together, he looked up at her and stared straight into her fiery eyes.

"We've been living together for over a month, and we rarely ever associate with each other! Then you suddenly decide you want to dine with me, but you won't even speak with me or give me the slightest indication that I even exist!" She went on, "why are we doing this anyway?"

Enjolras remained composed and unimpressed, his face hard and eyes vicious.

"Ne me regardez pas de cette façon. I'm not to blame." She said bitterly.

"I asked you to dine with me, because I wanted some company," his voice was so calm yet stern, and his expression was unwavering, it sent chills up her spine. It was there underneath her anger, the spark of fear.

"It wasn't an excuse to talk with you as you somehow seem to think." He continued, "I don't need to talk to anyone. If you haven't noticed by now, I'm a man of few words Eponine. If that bothers you then leave. Il n'importe pas à moi."

Her brows furrowed, and her eyes burned with detest, "No wonder the people never rose. Bâtard."

Enraged and her pride hurt, Eponine stormed off and out of the house into the night. It was warm and the stars were out as they twinkled above her. She followed the dirt path and didn't care where she went, just as long as she was away from Enjolras. How cruel of him to say such things! To say that he doesn't want to talk to her! How could he be so blind? How could he not see that she wasn't someone to talk to? That she's lonely and only wanted someone to confide in? How foolish of her to think that that man was human! He has no sympathy, that stone cold bastard. Marius was never so unkind.

Eponine's feet hindered as if she had been frozen to the ground. Her heart throbbed, and her breathing hitched. The ache had come again by the mere thought of him.

Marius…

No, Marius was never that horrible to her. Yes, he loved Cosette—a feeling Eponine would never know in return—and he paid no heed to Eponine, even was a bit rude to her at times, and broke her heart each time he mentioned Cosette, but he never was so callous like Enjolras. No, even when he left her as she faded from consciousness at the barricade, he wasn't malevolent. No matter what, Marius was never and would never be like Enjolras.


	3. Chapter 3

Eponine wasn't certain how long she had been walking, but she was able to pinpoint where she was. At the corner of Enjolras's usual paper route. She scoffed and frowned at the thought of him and continued on her way through the city as she'd done every night, tracing the fine line between the slums and more wholesome part of the city. For Eponine, the only reason why she ventured so close to the slums was for the familiarity, to remind herself that she was still no better than the beggars and the whores and the thieves of the street. Her life in Paris was still a part of her reality though she'd like to pretend it wasn't.

Her stomach growled; she forgot that she hadn't eaten dinner. The well-known pangs of hunger constricted her stomach, and she gently placed her hand on her belly. The pain of starvation wasn't nearly as strong as it was in the past, and she was able to tolerate it easily, ignore it even, and she continued to walk.

Through the dark alley, Eponine could spot three prostitutes cackling as they huddled together by a fire; as they laughed Eponine was sure the caked powder of white and rouge would crack and flake from their faces. They looked sinister, demonic from the fire and shadows that were tossed about, hiding parts of their witchlike faces. The layers and layers of makeup were smeared and smudged, and their matted, unkempt hair and tattered dresses of faded, dusty colors made the women less appealing then they already were. Wretched creatures of the underworld.

Her head low, Eponine kept on walking, thankful to be out and away from that old life surrounded by thieves and whores and the rest of the scum of the earth. She walked quickly hoping to outrun her past and flee from her shame until she collided with a strong body. Quickly she stepped back to see a tall, skinny man with dark eyes and what hair that could be seen under his hat was even darker. His toothy smile bore holes of rotten and missing teeth, and he reeked of sex and alcohol. Too bad. He was handsome too, nothing like Marius or Enjolras—which she hated to admit—but still was attractive despite his nasty teeth.

"Bonsoir," he said, his lips curling up into a smile. "A little late for a stroll, non?"

Eponine did not meet his gaze, but she could feel his eyes burning on her, glancing at her from her torn shoes to her pale face in admiration. Or was it lust? "How old are you?"

At this she snapped her head to glare at him, her eyes full of fire and with ruthlessness she spoke, "My age is none of your concern, Monsieur."

He smirked, "A temper too. Costumers like that in my girls. How 'bout you walk with me? I can offer you un petit travail."

Her brows furrowed and her hands curled into fists. How dare this man insult her in such a way! How dare he assume she'd be interested in working for him as a whore! She was better than them, she told herself, that her life now was far grander than that of the poor, that she didn't need to degrade herself for money. She refused to be a whore. But then again, she reminded herself where she was, at the border of the slums, the life she had been so accustomed to. But that was her past. She's no longer a gamine, she told herself though deep down she didn't believe it.

"I have no need to sell myself." Eponine retorted.

"You already have a job then?" He asked in disbelief as if he already knew her answer.

Eponine flushed, embarrassed by the truth and infuriated with his aggravating question. He must have known she was jobless, and that angered her even more. He's infuriating, this _pimp_.

Receiving no response as he expected, he crooked a smile. "My girls and I have seen you about running through the streets during the day and wandering around at night. You have no job, and no way to make a decent amount of money. So I'll ask you again. Come along with me, and join my girls. You'll be a part of our family, and you'll make money."

She wanted to smack him for his continuous insult, but only glared at him as she backed away into the darkness and hissed, "Ne venez pas en me recherchant encore ou vous le regretterez."

All she heard was his laugh.

The shadows engulfed her as she retreated with haste, her hair flaring as it caught the breeze, her eyes so fierce they could make any who look upon her cower in fear. She didn't know where she was going and she didn't care, just as long as she was away from that man. The soft sounds of her feet on cobblestone faded to the crunching of dirt when she realized she had been walking down the same road she and Enjolras took to get home. She growled in frustration, not wanting to go home and see his stone face. But she had no desire to continue walking through Rennes with the chance of running into that disgusting pimp either. So she wouldn't go home and she wouldn't carry on wandering though the city. At least not tonight. She looked about herself from the disappearing city buildings at her back to the little cottages scattered about near and far before her, searching for the nearest tree. A little ways away, almost impossible to see in the darkness, she spotted one, ran to it and sat against it, trying to block out any thoughts as she waited for morning or the Sleep Man's spell, whichever came first.

The sun rose to his right as Enjolras walked along the dirt path towards the city. Birds had begun to wake and chirp and fly overhead in the orange sky; the air was crisp even for an early summer morning, fresh and clean, and Enjolras was at ease for once. He had no plans, no meetings, nothing as of late to exhaust him except when his mind strayed back on the loss of his friends. Then he would grieve for days until he was able to find something to pick himself up. But most often, not at all, and he'd remain in that depressed state. This day was one of his rare but welcoming contented days so far which relieved him. As he walked, he spotted a shadow against a tree and closer examination revealed the shadow as Eponine. Her head hung over, and her knees were up with her hands in her lap. She was sleeping. Enjolras frowned. She would rather sleep under a tree than in a warm bed all because of an argument that _she_ started with _him_ the night before. Pathetic. She was pathetic. He approached her and stooped down to bounce on the balls of his feet, his arms resting on his thighs. He wanted to be sure that when she awoke, his eyes were the first things she'd see. He gripped her shoulder roughly and shook her. Her eyes fluttered, and she slowly opened them—the dark rings around her deep brown eyes never seemed to fade. She nearly jumped at the sight of him before her, and he watched as she face twisted into a grimace. He smirked at her reaction.

"Must your pride keep you away from your own home?" He asked sounding annoyed.

Her eyes narrowed and she bit back, "No. It's the cold hearted revolutionary that keeps me away."

Enjolras didn't have difficulty regaining his emotionless expression, unfazed by her cruel words. He stood to his feet and stared down at her with disapproving eyes. Each conversation they had, she always managed to agitate his nerves. Curled up against the tree and the dark shadows shrouded about her, along with her shawl that was wrapped loosely over her arms, she took on the resemblance of a bat with its wings draped around it.

"I'll be at work. So go home." He then turned and continued on his walk. He didn't even take a second glace to see if she had stood to head back home. But he frankly didn't care what she did. She could stay under that tree and rot, and it wouldn't matter to him. He had his own problems to deal with instead of concerning himself with that girl.

When the long grueling hours were finally through, Enjolras headed home with two frans and 50 sous. It wasn't much but it was still income and once Marius' generous donation was exhausted, he and Eponine would still have money to spare. As he treaded on that same beaten dirt path, the sun slowly starting to renovate its colors in the coming of dusk, he couldn't help but let his mind wander back to life before the rebellion. It was a habit of his, to think of the past, to dwell on it until he couldn't handle the pain and the guilt, to remind himself that his friends' deaths were all his fault. Not like he could forget. He wasn't afraid to admit he missed them. They were his most faithful friends, his loyal comrades, ready to die for him and the cause without a moment's hesitation. Courfeyrac and his witty banter, Jehan, the poet, Combeferre, the scholar, Joly, the Les Amis' trusted medical student. He remembered each face, Feuilly, Bahorel, Lesgle, and their voices talking in indistinct chatter, smiling and laughing, sharing a drink. A drink. Grantaire. Enjolras frowned at the thought of him. The drunkard of the gang, the one who had no thought on anything, the one that always drunk out of his mind and didn't believe in anything, wasn't passionate about anything. He liked his booze and his women and only came to the meetings because he was loyal to his friends, not to the cause. Oh how he hated that drunken bastard. Enjolras went so far to even loathe Grantaire's very death, a death for a cause he didn't believe in, not a noble or honorable death. But for all Enjolras knew—he frankly couldn't remember—Grantaire died with a bottle of alcohol in his hand. He scoffed in disgust at the thought even as a slight smile framed his face.

Enjolras brought himself back to reality as he approached his little house, the sinking sun tossing about dark shadows over the home, and a shady figure stood in the doorway. Eponine. Her arms were folded, and her forehead was creased. Her head was slightly tilted down and her lips were pressed into a frown. Merde, he thought to himself. That face was the last thing he wanted to see. As he approached the door, she sighed, and her expression transformed to almost pleasant. The change was so quick it took Enjolras by surprise. Before entering the house, she said hastily, "Dinner is ready."

Silently, he followed her in to find the dinner prepared and waiting for him at the table. He took his seat and didn't wait for her to sit down, not that he expected her to since she was clearly still mad at him. But she did sit with him, and she didn't eat. She simply stared off at nothing in particular with thoughtful eyes. Ignoring her strange behavior, Enjolras continued to eat, enjoying the silence and pretending she wasn't there at all which wasn't too difficult. All too quickly for him, her voice calm, gentle cut through the stillness.

"You don't remember me, do you?"

Enjolras didn't look up at her as he ate and said dryly, "Why should I?"

"It was at the barricade," At this he perked up and hesitantly looked at her as she continued, "I was dressed as a boy. We ran into each other just as I was coming through. You saw me under my disguise. You saw me and said the barricade was no place for a woman like me. You demanded I leave, and I was rude to you."

She then turned and looked at him. There was a hint of sadness in her eyes, he could see she was trying to conceal. "Don't you remember? It wasn't too long ago."

Enjolras thought for a moment, images and flashes of Eponine in boy clothes and a brief conversation, inaudible and hazed thanks to his lack of memory. But he remembered her. So he simply nodded to her, and regarded her recollection as useless information. What did it matter if they met before?

And as if she were reading his mind, she shrugged and muttered, "I was only curious. I'm glad someone remembers me, even if that someone is you."

Nothing more was said that night between them. Enjolras retired early to his room with a book of law in his hand, but as he read, he felt bothered by what Eponine had said. She said it so easily as if she had been using that phrase since birth. _I'm glad someone remembers me, even if that someone is you._ He couldn't figure out why it was such a nuisance. He shouldn't be concerned anyway, but still, he couldn't shake the nagging little thought from his mind. _I'm glad someone remembers me…_


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: So this chapter is filler but then again it's not. I know it's not the best either, I'm not too proud of it myself but it is important to the story. It gets better I promise. So as always, enjoy! Please review and tell me what you think!**

It was now early August. The physical wounds of the barricade that Enjolras and Eponine both bore were now scars. Yet, the mental wounds the failed revolution left behind weren't so easy to mend, no amount of gauze or slings could heal them, only time. But now without his sling Enjolras could work even harder and move up through the company and fight for that promotion he was striving for. He desperately wanted to be a journalist, to fuel the love of spreading news along with his voice as he did when making his speeches in Paris. In his mind, he could play the role of the revolutionary again, speak with an eloquence and a passion through his writing to stir the people to fight for change. His revolution was not yet through.

As for Eponine, after so long of struggling for a job, she was finally hired to work as a seamstress in a factory of girls, except for the male foreman of course. Slowly, she got into the swing of things, the working life, the long tedious days of sewing and stitching for only 20 sous. The work wasn't hard, however she did not like it. But the other women were kind to her, which made her work bearable, and they loved to gossip as all women do.

Eponine had quickly forgotten her encounter with that pimp on the street and found herself more relaxed and at ease. The darkness of Paris felt so far away, the life she lived as a gamine of the poor was nothing more than a distant, distasteful memory. She was finally free of her chains. How liberating it felt to have a home and no longer be hungry.

She walked through Rennes on her way to the factory, breathing in the air with a gleam of happiness in her eyes. She looked about herself, glancing at the faces around her, the rich with their elegant clothes and beautiful faces painted and not, the middle class, well off enough and content to be a bit grander than the poor. And then, there they were, the poor with their miserable, dirty faces and torn clothes. She had been there. She was once on of the poor, the scum of the earth but no longer, and even though she was happy and thankful with where she was in society, her heart went out to them.

As she walked down the street, she glanced up and stared into the window of the tailor shop. Divine dresses and suits were elegantly displayed for all to see, and Eponine stared in hopeful awe. They were beautiful. She had the money. She didn't have to wear her tattered, old clothes anymore. She could buy something for herself. Maybe, she thought wishfully, maybe I can be beautiful. The thought was so rash and unattainable, but maybe, just maybe now that she had money to spend, she could look beautiful like a bourgeoisie. And as she continued on her walk, she went with lighter step and a blithe smile gracing her face.

As she rounded the corner to the factory, her smile began to slip, and her optimism was fading. The factory building was on the edge of the slums. Eponine had known this when she applied for the job, and she did her best to not let it bother her. But for some reason now, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched even from within the mass of citizens. And not just by a single pair of eyes but many; the thought of being silently watched sent shivers up her spine. As she reached the door, she paused and hesitated before looking over her shoulder. Amongst the many faces, she couldn't catch anyone with their eyes on her. She breathed a sigh, trying to shake her paranoia and entered the factory; she was unable to relieve her anxiety for the rest of the day.

When she arrived home, she found Enjolras sitting on the couch reading. Even as he read he had a stern expression. Why? Why did he feel the need to remain so cold with everything he did? Doesn't he know that it's perfectly all right to show emotion every now and again?

"Monsieur Enjolras?"

"Just Enjolras." He said flatly, not even taking his eyes off his book to look at her.

"Enjolras," she sighed, "may I borrow some francs? I passed by the tailor shop, you see, and saw such beautiful dresses. And I have no other clothes you know. Or shoes. Tomorrow is my day off Enjolras. I would love to buy some things for myself."

At this he placed his book on his lap to glance up at her. He was frowning. Oh why must he always be so unhappy with me? Eponine thought.

"Why are you asking me for money?"

Eponine's brows furrowed, and she shifted uncomfortably as he stared at her.

"The money is just as well yours as it is mine. You don't have to ask me when it comes to little investments such as buying clothes." He said.

He trusts her, she mused as her eyes lightened. She smiled, "Oh merci Enjolras!"

He simply nodded and turned back to his book as Eponine went happily to her room. Inside, she took the single painting from the wall. At the backside of the painting, it was hollowed at to store and hide money. She removed what francs were within and smiled at the money in her hand. There was more than enough to pay for some dresses and a few pairs of shoes. Eponine bubbled with excitement. She pictured herself in dresses so lovely, her hair pulled back with curls, her face full of life. The thought of tomorrow made her grin from ear to ear.

Early that morning, she went into the city to the tailor shop with the francs in hand. Before she entered the little shop, she took a moment to look down at herself. Stained white blouse, dirty brown skirt, ripped shoes. Once she stepped inside the clothes of her life in Paris will disappear. She walked in with a smile on her face and surveyed the room. It wasn't too nicely lit, and the room was a bit dark and dusty, but there were so many fabrics and colors and clothes to browse over Eponine could care less about how the store looked. Then she spotted a tiny, stout, elderly woman. She hunched over as she walked, and her gray hair was pulled back into a poorly done bun. The dress she wore was white with lacing, but the one thing that stood out about the woman were the purple rings under her eyes. The elderly woman eyed Eponine and frowned, probably wondering why someone like her would enter her little shop.

Eponine held back the anger within her as the woman silently judged her. She cleared her throat and spoke, "Bonjour. I'm her for a fitting."

She pushed up the spectacles on he crooked nose and folded her arms over her chest. "I am Madame Volchaire. I run a respectable business here. I don't serve your kind. Get out."

Eponine glared at the boorish Madame. She was used to this treatment and it was to be expected since what she wore was of the poor. So she did her best to contain the rage that boiled within her only because she wanted her dresses. Clutching the francs in her hand, she showed the money to Volchaire who sneered at it.

"I want three dresses. One of satin, another of cotton, and one more of velvet. I don't care what you choose to do with the cotton and satin dresses just as long as you make them well. But what I do desire is that the velvet dress is red. No lacing, and I will explain what I want once we get started. A simply red velvet dress."

Madame Volchaire raised an eyebrow at Eponine before nodding towards the back door for her to follow. Within that back room, the Madame took her measurements and quickly went to work on the dresses. Eponine stood in the same spot until her feet ached and continued to stand for hours more. It was boring and infuriating as the old woman muttered her insulting questions such as how in the world Eponine could afford the dresses. She complained that Eponine was too skinny, that all young girls nowadays were too skinny and spa t rude comments at her, that she homely and her hair was full of knots. Eponine remained silent, biting her tongue until it bled, patiently waiting for Volchaire to finish. When the first dress was complete, Eponine stared at herself in all three of the long mirrors. The satin dress was white and green, green at her torso, which was hugged tight by her corset—poor Eponine felt as if her organs were being squished up towards her throat—and white with emerald designs at her puffed sleeves that looped around her upper arm near her shoulder—her shoulder was left bare—to her back. It was white as well where the dress fanned out at her waist and was also covered with the same green designs. The dress flowed down to her floor, and Eponine smiled in delight. The dress was beautiful. She nodded in approval to Madame Volchaire who simply sighed.

"Let me get you out of that."

Having finished with extravagant of the three dresses, it didn't take as much time for the old woman to complete the cotton dress. It was light blue with sleeves to her wrists. It didn't flare out too much at her waist like the satin one did, but the corset was just as tight. The dress didn't touch the floor though as the first did, but instead stopped right at her feet to cover her ankles. It was a plain yet very fitting dress.

The last dress, the easiest and quickest one to make, was the red velvet dress Eponine requested specifically. This one she walked Madame through step by step on what she wanted. The yoke of the dress was to dip at the center of her chest and stretch to round over the corner of her shoulders. The sleeve of the dress would puff out only slightly and the velvet fabric would stop a little bit above the middle of her upper arm. The sleeve then would be made of black tool and end at the middle of her forearm. At her torso, the dress wouldn't be tight but comfortable, loosen at the waist and flow to the ground. That was all, and once it was refined, Eponine beamed. Out of the three, this one was her favorite. Red really did look well on her. When all was finished, and she chose her shoes, simply flats, having no desire to walk around in heals, she paid the unhappy woman and left the store in her red dress with her belongings in hand. As she walked through the city to head home, again that nagging, uncomfortable feeling that someone was spying on her arose. It bothered her greatly but did all she could to ignore it. It wasn't until she was walking down that dirt road she could relax.

By the time she was home the sun was beginning to set and so while she waited for Enjolras to return from work she decided to make dinner. By the time he came home the dinner was prepared and was just about the be placed on the table. Eponine came out with plates full of food and a smile on her face. She watched as Enjolras stared at her new dress but said nothing. Her smile faded, and she frowned. He couldn't even compliment her. What kind of gentleman is he? But what does it matter what he thinks? She didn't need his approval to feel good about herself.

As they ate together, Eponine stole glances at the man beside her. His face was empty, expressionless, and she couldn't shake the niggling feeling of wanting to ask him something. She wasn't sure what or why. She just wanted to get him to speak to her. She chewed on her lip as she stared at him.

"Do you have something you'd like to say?" He asked, his eyes fixed on the food before him.

"Non, rien." Eponine sighed.

She did have something to say. She wanted to tell him that sickly feeling she had that someone was watching her, and it worried her. She wanted to tell him that she couldn't help but feel that something bad was going to happen. But how could she tell him something so ridiculous as that? He'd laugh at her, surely. He'd tell her she's being foolish and unrealistic. And she'd believe it, or try to. But even as she considered confiding in him, she couldn't help but feel ashamed and embarrassed? Confiding in Enjolras? Have you gone soft? She refused to let go of her independence, of her pride. So she wouldn't let him know. She couldn't let him know. It's not like he'd do the same for her. No, he'd never do such a thing.


	5. Chapter 5

Despite the fact that he's a private man, Enjolras wasn't oblivious to Eponine's sudden change in behavior. For the past few days she seemed to be on edge and anxious, troubled and unfocused, and Enjolras would silently wait for her to confide in him. Though she never did, and it was easy for him to disregard her all together; if she wasn't going to tell him, he wasn't going to ask and was not concerned.

He awoke early just as he did nearly every morning to prepare himself for work. He rose to sit on the edge of the bed, stretched and yawned. Slowly he dressed himself and walked out towards the kitchen. Sitting on the dining room table he spotted two plates, one already empty with crumbs and the other filled with food. Breakfast. He frowned knowing Eponine had made it. What was she doing up so early? Regardless, he sat down to eat, silently grateful that she was considerate enough to make him breakfast. When he finished he turned to head out of the house but stopped at the sight of Eponine. She was wearing the green dress she had bought herself.

But what stood out about Eponine—after finally taking enough time to actually look at her—was that she no longer looked like the homely gamine he was so accustomed to. With a healthier figure, brushed hair, a clean face, and a new dress she looked much like a bourgeoisie. It surprised him.

"Hello." She said softly.

"What are you doing awake?" He asked.

She shrugged, "I was planning to walk around the city before I'm needed at the factory."

A few seconds passed before Enjolras spoke, not wanting to be in her presence much longer, "I'm leaving for work."

He then walked out the door, half expecting Eponine to follow. She didn't to his relief, and he made his way towards the city, losing himself in his thoughts as he went. He reflected on his revolution, wondering if there was something he could have done different. Maybe if he had acquired more guns, or took more time writing and rewriting his speeches—more than the many hours he invested into his work; maybe if he was more convincing in getting the people to fight alongside him, the possibly his rebellion wouldn't have failed. He shook the thought from his head knowing his revolt was doomed from the start. But it is quite probable that if there was something done different, he might have been able to spare at least one of his friends' lives and have taken his place instead. He smiled lightly at the thought, the thought of sacrifice and death, trying to push back the memories of his friends. He frowned as he tried to shake his thoughts, and once he could, he regained his stony composure.

When he reached the printing firm, he breathed a disappointed sigh. He hated his degrading job as a paperboy. He was a university student who studied law and was the leader of the June Rebellion! He deserved a promotion. He grit his teeth in frustration, his hands clenched into fists even as he entered the building to retrieve the freshly printed newspapers.

"Monsieur Enjolras," he paused as he shuffled through his share of papers to look up at his foreman.

"Bonjour," Enjolras replied dryly before plucking his bundle for the day.

"I'm rather busy so I'll make this quick," said the bald, stout man, "I will be firing one of my journalists quite soon. I've come to realize he is unfit for the job. So I will be needing someone to replace him."

Hope filled Enjolras as he sucked in the air. He knew what his manager was getting at, and he could feel his nerves quiver in excitement while keeping his expression calm and cold.

"Even though you are qualified, I can't guarantee that you will get what you want. But it is likely." There was a pause, "I must be getting back to work."

"Thank you Monsieur," Enjolras said respectfully.

The foreman merely nodded before walked back from where he came, leaving Enjolras to soak in this new information. A promotion to be a journalist. It wasn't about the money he would receive—far much more than he was paid now as a paperboy, but the respect and even the power he would gain. He could persuade the public through writing; with his eloquent passionate words he could be the revolutionary leader fighting for freedom once again. All through journalism.

This newfound hope, this thrill engulfed him and filled him with pride. It was easy for him to remain composed and professional while working, but he could not deny that overwhelming feeling to tell someone. Maybe Eponine. He quickly disregarded the unnecessary thought. She didn't need to know, not until he secured the job.

By the end of the day, his enthusiasm dwindled a bit simply due to the passing of time. He walked about trying to sell the last few papers, scanning for faces searching to buy. Among the crowd and across the street, Enjolras spotted that satin green dress and dark brown hair that covered her face. Eponine. She was always released from work earlier than him, women having no need tow work as much as men. She was staring blankly into the blur of the people, lost in thought, waiting for him to finish his day as usual. He quickly shifted his attention back to selling his newspapers and ignored her as he typically did. He did what he could to get rid of the last few papers before quickly returning to the firm to retrieve his earnings for the day. Two francs, thirty sous.

Enjolras glared at the money in his hand as if it were worth less than the grime under his boots. He was making less than what he was due! How dare the foreman try to cheat him out of his money! Enjolras had half a mind to confront him but decided against it for one reason and one reason only: the promotion. As long as Enjolras kept his head low and worked hard, he would surely have that promotion. And that includes tolerating his greedy foreman. His jaw clenched tight as he shoved the money into his pocket and left the building.

The sun was beginning to set, its hues of orange, red, yellow, and pink dancing across the city and shining on Eponine who was waiting for him outside the door, leaning against the wall. She lifted her head to smile lightly at him. Enjolras simply nodded to her and led the way through the city towards home.

There was no tension in the air, nor the sense of discomfort between him and her, but simply the pleasant silence of the walk. However, Enjolras could feel Eponine pass glances his way. He did his best to ignore her though he couldn't fight the discomfort that rose within him. What did she want?

"Enjolras," she spoke with a sense of fragility, "do you miss Paris?"

His forehead creased, what sort of question was that? "No."

"Not even a little bit?" She persisted, her voice a bit stronger, "Not the Café Musain?"

Enjolras frowned as he stared at her. "No. Why would I miss a place that is a reminder of so much death?"

Her eyes lightened with understanding, and she said with the utmost sincerity, "You miss your friends."

It wasn't the grief or the guilt he felt that made him avert his eyes from her soft stare. It was the anger at the question that caused him to turn from her. What made her say such a thing? Why did she want to talk about it? There was no need to! Enjolras ignored her statement and picked up the pace of his walk. He wasn't going to allow her to reminisce of the past that still ate away at him. She didn't' need to know his story.

As the pair neared their home, Enjolras could see that something was wrong, and the closer he got, he realized that the door handle was broken, dangling by a single nail, and the door was cracked open. Enjolras could faintly hear Eponine call his name as he started running towards the house, his body racked with rage.

He burst through the door with Eponine not too far behind him. His eyes widened in shock and the artery in his neck pulsed in fiery. Their home was destroyed. The paintings in the house were on the floor, ripped and broken, the money within them gone. The cushions on the sofa were tossed about, and the money that was stored within them was missing. Papers, books, and a bunch of miscellaneous items were scattered on the floor along with bits of broken glass. The money that they had saved and stored from Marius and their jobs was gone. The only money they could salvage were the 20 francs stuffed in a few of the books that were still on the bookshelf. Shoving the francs he found in his pocket, he turned back to face the living room and dining room, assessing the damage with a mournful expression. He glanced at Eponine as she walked out of her room, clutching her red dress, pressing it to her chest. He hair draped over her face like dark curtain. She didn't look up at him, but he could still make out the tears burning in her eyes. They both knew the travesty of the situation, but Eponine had to speak it out loud. She couldn't keep it contained.

"Everything is gone. All of out savings." Her voice was wrecked and she sniffed, "We would never be hungry. But now—"

Her shoulders sagged, and her body shook; she couldn't hold back the sobs that escaped her like a broken dam. Enjolras never liked to see a woman cry, yet staring at Eponine as she was now, his features softened as pity overtook his heart. After living her life in the slums, he realized she finally had a taste of freedom, of luxury for it only to be taken away so quickly.

"I don't want to be hungry again, Enjolras."

If she hadn't said those words, he would have left her to herself, but once they were spoken he approached her in long strides and took the fragile girl in his arms. The moment he wrapped his arms around her, she stiffened, and her breathing hindered. He didn't coax her to relax or to continue crying; he just held her gently and wouldn't let go until she refused his touch. She didn't but instead leaned into him and closed her eyes and tried to keep herself from trembling.

It felt a bit strange to hold her, this usually strong, stubborn, and dark young woman, but Enjolras took comfort in her warmth, her vulnerability. The gentleman in him had taken control but only for a short moment. Once he began to feel uncomfortable, he let her go, his hand lingering on her arm before they no longer touched.

"I'll go find the police." He said.

"What good will that do?" Eponine said bitterly.

Enjolras stopped before he reached the door and turned to look at her.

"They can help fid the men who did this." He replied with a hint of frustration.

She looked up at him, her eyes cold and fierce. "They won't find anything. I've participated in my fair share of robberies alongside my father. The police never caught us but once after the years we lived in Paris and all the crimes the Patron-Minette committed."

"Even so, we have nothing to lose."

He didn't' know why he wanted to send for the police. He had lost his faith in government, the police, France's very citizens. His failed rebellion helped him realize how selfish and cruel and faithless they were. None could be trusted. But he would continue fight for freedom nonetheless.

Enjolras then left the house to return to the city to alert the place. As he walked, his thoughts drifted back to Eponine, not the fact that they had lost the money needed to live comfortable. No, for once it was Eponine that he thought of. She had taken him by surprise, the sudden fear and tears that over came her. She was a tragedy. But he couldn't think of her for long. The robbery had affected him just as well as her; it wasn't just the money they had lost, the luxury of living contentedly, but their sense of privacy and security. To be at home ensured the feeling of safety, but now for Enjolras and Eponine, that was no longer the case. All of that, the security, the privacy, the safety, was gone. But even as he tried to push back the thoughts of Eponine and focus on the task at hand, her words repeated over and over in his mind. _I don't want to be hungry again._


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: I apologize for the shorter chapter. In all honesty, I'm not too fond of this one but hey, the show must go on. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy. French translation at the end. Please review!**

In due time, Enjolras returned with the police, two lowly officers dressed in blue who appeared to be bored and apathetic. They both walked swiftly around the ruined house, their eyes scaling up and down, analyzing the broken bits with a look of half interest and annoyance. They gave the impression that they wanted to get out of the house as soon as possible, avoiding eye contact with Enjolras but passed a few glances at Eponine as if they knew her, which made her uncomfortable. As Enjolras watched them, waiting for them to say something, he heard Eponine scoff, a scoff that said "I told you so." He shot a glare her way, and she simply rolled her eyes before staring back down at the floor. Finally one of the officers confronted Enjolras.

"Can you help us?" He asked dryly.

The officer, Banet, spoke, "Possibly. Do you know anyone who could have done this? Someone with a grudge against you?"

"If we knew who it was we wouldn't have asked for your help," Eponine retorted, her voice dripping with hate.

"Please, we are trying to do what we can." Said Banet coolly before returning his gaze back to Enjolras. "Do you know anyone?"

He shook his head, "No."

"Did you see anybody?"

"No." Enjolras repeated.

The policeman was silent for a moment before breathing another sigh, this one sounding more irritated.

"We will do what we can," he said before following his partner out the door.

Enjolras stared after them, not in surprise but in angry. He wasn't going to let them go so easily.

"Wait a minute!" He shouted and ran after them, "That's it?"

The officer faced him, "There isn't much we can do. We have very little to go off of."

"So you give up?" Enjolras barked, outraged. He wanted answers!

Both policemen said nothing and turned to walk away. Infuriated, Enjolras grabbed Banet by his shoulder, but he pushed Enjolras back making him stagger. Banet shouted curses at him while his partner stomped his knee, causing Enjolras to yell and hiss as his knee buckled into the dirt. The partner grabbed his arm and twisted it back while pushing his head down. Enjolras groaned as pain traveled through his arm, unable to wriggle his way out of the policeman's grip. Enjolras was only able to look up with his eyes and from where he was, he couldn't find Banet's face who stood above him, staring down on him with heated eyes.

"How dare you put your hands on me?"

Enjolras remained silent as rage and hatred flooded him.

"You deserve to lose everything." Banet said, "Including that girl."

His partner then shoved him to the side, and Enjolras watched as the policemen walked away. He then stood, dusted himself off and walked back to the house, muttering curses as he went.

"What was that?" Eponine said, "I thought I heard someone yell."

"Nothing." Enjolras said bitterly, his pride hurt thanks to Banet.

She frowned but didn't press the matter further, so he promptly started cleaning, picking up the papers and books scattered about. Eponine took the destroyed paintings and left them outside the house. She then disappeared into her room for a moment. There was nothing that was taken—she didn't have anything to take besides the paintings she had already thrown out—but the lonely floor long mirror on the wall, the one she used to stare at herself in her lovely dresses, was cracked into eternal spider webs. She stared into the mirror, into the broken face that stared back in overwhelming grief. Quickly, she converted her angst to anger, an intuition she had learned long ago back in Paris living with her father. Eponine turned away from the mirror and went back into the living room, retrieving a broom to sweep up the mess in frustration. She glanced at Enjolras who was still collecting papers and slamming books back into the bookshelf.

"I told you they wouldn't help us," she hissed.

Enjolras glared at her, "Don't start. The last thing I want to hear right now is your snide remarks." She was hitting his nerves and heating his blood to boil, this she knew but didn't care.

"If you had listened—"

"Eponine stop." His warning sounded more like a plea.

She turned to face him, that same rage coursing through her. If he had listened to her he wouldn't be so upset as he was right now.

"No! Enjolras—" Her voice was caught in her throat as he snapped his head around, leering at her, his eyes dilated, ablaze in a fury of hate and wrath, his hands curled into fists, and his jaw clenched tight. Bone chilling fear swept over Eponine; never before had he ever looked so frightening. But what was he, a single man, nothing more. So she disregarded her fear, pushed it back, and glared at him just as defiantly. They were too much alike. She could see it irritated him.

"I don't want to hear what you have to say." He spoke calmly, coolly despite his expression, "I've been through too much to listen to any criticism from you."

"You think my life has been easy?" She snapped, offended, "I'm a gamine of the slums! I've lived y life in darkness and have seen more than a bourgeois like you could ever imagine. *Vous avez pas juste pour m'insulter, vous bâtard insupportable!"

Enjolras glared at Eponine who had transformed right before his very eyes. Not too long ago, she was a vulnerable young woman weeping before him. Now she had averted back to her ruthless self but somehow—and this he could not fathom—her eyes seemed to have darkened from deep brown to black. In that moment, Enjolras contemplated heavily on strangling her, and he was sure she knew it too; had she forgotten all he had sacrificed for people like her?

He gritted his teeth and walked passed her, muttered that he was going for a walk, and left the house. Eponine didn't stop him and both were grateful to be away from each other. Talking to one another was a very difficult, nearly impossible task, thus why Enjolras preferred to avoid it entirely. But if there was one thing they could agree on, it was that they both despised each other.

He didn't return until late in the night. Candles were lit around the house as if in mourning, tossing about eerie shadows as gentle flames danced. From what he could see, the house looked almost decent thanks to Eponine, the floor was clean and most of the books were placed back on the bookshelf. There were a few papers strewn here and there, and parchment was placed in a pile on one of the end tables as if it were soon to be read. That was when he spotted Eponine on the sofa, a dark heap in the flickering light of the candles. Enjolras ignored her as he usually did and headed towards his room. When he reached the door, he found himself waiting for her to speak, ready for her to yell at him or accuse or blame him for the robbery. But she said nothing, and Enjolras didn't know whether to feel relieved or confused. So he avoided her instead and closed himself off within his bedroom. Inside he began to pace back and forth, considering what to do next. How where they going to hide their money and protect their property? He thought and he planned and he strategized what he was going to do for what seemed hours, and even as he lay in bed, he went over in his mind what he was considering.

Rising from his bed, Enjolras walked over and opened his door to find Eponine still sitting on the couch, the candles around her slowly melting themselves out. How long had he been planning? He walked over and stood in front of her, staring down on her with unfeeling eyes.

"Why are you here?" She mumbled, her eyes fixed on the floor.

He ignored the bitterness in her voice. He wasn't going to deal with her attitude.

"I don't want to hear it. I don't want to speak with you either, but you need to know what's going to be done about our finances" At this she looked up at him with a jaded expression but willing to listen. So he continued, "From now on we will hide all of our earnings."

"Where when we can be so easily robbed again?" She interrupted.

"Let me finish." He breathed, "We will hide our money within the folds of our clothes. None will be able to get a hold of it."

"But what about all of our assets? Or will we be hiding our furniture in our clothes a well?" Eponine asked sarcastically.

He rolled his eyes, "Mon Dieu. No. We don't need to worry about our belongings. Just the money."

"Pourquoi?"

"Think for a moment. I know you're from the slums, but you've got the brains. What did the robbers take other than our money?"

Eponine pondered his question, ignoring the fact that he had just called her intelligent in his own malicious way. She racked her memory for anything they owned that might have been stolen. "Nothing."

He nodded, "That's right. They only destroyed what was valuable. Nothing more. No one will want to rob a home that has nothing of worth in it. We don't need to take any unnecessary precautions for things that don't merit stealing."

Eponine nodded in understanding, staring up at him with sad eyes.

"Also," Enjolras spoke softly, "you're going to have to sell your dresses."

She said nothing and bit her lip. She nodded again, and he didn't need to say any more. He stared at her with mixed feelings of pity and aggravation; she was so willing to show her emotions. He said nothing and walked back into his room, leaving her to the darkness that swallowed her up as the final candle went out.

_*You have no right to insult me, you insufferable bastard_


	7. Chapter 7

Nearly a week had gone by, and it wasn't too difficult for Eponine to move on from the recent event of the robbery. It's not as if she hadn't gone through one before, even though it was she who was aiding with the robbery. Crime was a part of her old life, a life she was accustomed to, that she never allowed to get the best of her. She wasn't going to let some measly robbery affect her, no. She still had a job, food on the table, and a bed to sleep in. Things were well, she told herself.

She was on her way home, the sun sinking on her left, orange, red, and yellow staining the sky. A smile framed her pale face, her hand gripping tight to the money she held while she had her red dress draped over her arm. It took the day, but she was finally able to sell her green satin dress and blue cotton one. From her elegant emerald dress, she sold it and made nearly as much as she paid for it, and for the simple sapphire one, a split even half of what she paid. It was more than she expected. However, she was unable to sell the red velvet dress—to her relief—because people, even the sinking middle class said it was ugly and plain, that no one would use a fabric such as tool for sleeves, that if anything, dress would befit a girl of the poor, and Eponine was wasting her time. She didn't mind the harsh criticism she received from the dress; all that matter to her was the she liked it.

She made her way home, opening the door to the dark silence. Lighting candles, she walked into her room, hung up her dress, the money still in her hand, and dug around her drawers for a needle and thread. After retrieving a knife from the kitchen, she sat on the couch. She noted that to her right was the parchment she was reading—it was very difficult, not having read for years since she lived back in Montfermeil. It hadn't been touched since she laid her delicate fingers on it; not even Enjolras had touched it, which surprised her. He loved to read after all. She quickly pushed away the thought of him, a smile creeping across her face. Turning back to her needle and thread, she focused on the little task at hand. With the knife, at the side of her thigh, she cut a slash into the now clean brown skirt, making sure not to cut through the inner fold of the skirt. She then stuffed what money she could fit without making a noticeable bump into the hole and sewed it back up. She repeated the process again on the other side until all of her money was safely secured inside her skirt. Pleased with herself, she smiled, and then proceeded to the kitchen to prepare to dinner. Enjolras wouldn't be home for another hour or two.

When he did come home, dinner was ready and waiting for him at the table, Eponine waiting patiently for him to return.

"Bonsoir." She smiled

"Bonsoir," he said, looking at her curiously.

"I sold the dresses today. Made more than I expected."

"Where is the money?" He asked.

"In my skirt." Eponine replied simply; he knew what she meant.

They continued to exchange plain pleasantries before their conversation stopped. As they ate, Eponine tried to read him, scanning his face for expressions. Only one appeared, stern. Cold. Why? Why so cold?

"Sit with me?" Eponine had said once dinner was through and she was on the sofa.

Enjolras frowned at her, a book tucked under his arm as he was about to retreat to his room. No smile graced her face, but her eyes silently asked him to sit. His eyes were hard and his jaw clenched, but he nodded and complied and walked and sat on the other side of the couch.

"Did you know that I could read?" Eponine said with pride, her lips tugged into a smug smile.

At this Enjolras blinked, confusion plastered over his face again. Eponine's ego swelled.

"Oui Monsieur, dear little Eponine knows how to read. In fact—" she reached around behind her to grab the thick parchment she had been reading throughout the week, "It was a court case I was reading. It was difficult, but I was able to manage."

She handed him the court case, smiling as if she had won some unknown battle that he was unaware of.

" 'The Case of Martin Guerre.'" Enjolras read before turning his attention back to Eponine.

"I would like to tell you about it." Eponine said, "Won't you listen?"

Enjolras didn't move so Eponine took her chance. This would be the first, real conversation she and him ever shared. The thought made her smile.

"In the sixteenth century, Martin Guerre lived in the Basque country, in the village of Artigat with his wife and family. He was a landlord, and his wife's name was Bertrande. But he hated his life as a landlord and neglected his wife and even his own son. After a dispute between he and his brother, Martin left Artigat for Spain and there became a soldier in the army of France's enemy, Spain." Eponine paused to look at Enjolras who indeed seemed thoroughly interested. This pleased her. So she continued, "As for Bertrande, Martin's disappearance was terrible, truly. She was neither a widow, nor a wife and under Catholic law, an abandoned wife could not remarry.

But one day, a man came to her claiming to be her long lost Martin. He had the same appearance, knew what Martin knew, but he in fact wasn't Martin at all. He was a man known as Arnaud du Tilh from the village of Sajas. His nickname was 'Pansette'. The people of Artigat did believe that Arnaud was Martin and welcomed him. Everyone except Bertrande. She knew he was not her Martin, but he was kinder, you see. He cared for her and showered her with affection." At this Eponine paused, a blush and a wishful smile came across her face.

Enjolras stared in a manner she was unfamiliar with. He was calm, and his eyes were kinder. Was there a smile on his face?

Eponine continued, "Bertrande decided to let this man be her husband. Why not after all the love he had given her? As long as the people of Artigat were convinced, she knew she could love this Martin. And she did. He made her happy. He taught her how to write."

She turned to Enjolras, the same wishful smile gracing her face, "It's lovely isn't it? To have a stranger love you so much to teach you things you could not do."

He simply shrugged, "I wouldn't know. Continue."

And she did, "They had children, two boys I think. But then Arnaud began to ask for more, money and other things, which was contrary to Basque custom. Arnaud claimed that Martin's uncle was withholding his inheritance. This made Marin's uncle furious, and the uncle accused his presumed nephew of not being Basque and therefore, not Martin at all. So they went to court. Both Arnaud and the uncle made their claims, the uncle declaring that the man on trail was in fact Arnaud or Pansette of Sajas while Arnaud denied it, saying he was Martin Guerre. The family played witness and shared their facts, but the one person's word that matter the most was his wife Bertrande. And she insisted that Arnaud was Martin and her husband. The court found no evidence that disproved that Arnaud was Martin, and oh, Enjolras I was excited to read that. Really, I was."

Eponine's eyes gleamed with a sort of wonder and hope as she spoke, a gleam that Enjolras hadn't seen before. And it was reading that brought it out. Inwardly he smiled. Of course it was reading, but more importantly, a historical court case.

"The court was ready to close the case," Eponine went on, her eyes shadowing into seriousness, "but before they could, a man had come, hobbling on a cane since his leg was amputated. He claimed he was Martin Guerre. No one knows for sure why Martrin returned for the wife he never cared for and the people he left, but he did. And so it went on again. They two argued, Martin and Arnaud over who was who by quizzing each other on Martin Guerre's life. It was a stalemate. And so, Bertrande was called upon again, who by now was distraught, confused, and more importantly scared. But there was something in Arnaud's eyes, Bertrande saw, that told her what to say. And she was no longer scared but very sad. She told the court that Martin was her husband and admitted that Arnaud, the man she truly loved was a fraud. And so the court decided Arnaud was to be hanged for impersonation under the Toulouse Parliament. Bertrande's punishment was to endure her real husband, Martin and also, which the man she loved die. And she did watch Arnaud die. The two cried for each other."

When she had finished, Enjolras was staring down at the floor almost into nothingness though his mind was racing with this knew and quite interesting information. But what amazed him most was that it was Eponine who had read it! She stared at him intently, waiting for him to speak. He then turned to her, and he stared with deep, passionate eyes, a striking beautiful blue. He appeared to look proud and proud of her. Eponine's heart jumped giddily at the thought. The man of marble, proud of her! She did her best to contain the smile that scraped eagerly at her lips, but she couldn't fight the excited, hopeful gleam. But then, just like that, they were gone; his ocean eyes grew calm and cold. Eponine's heart sank as disappointment washed over her.

"What do you think?" She asked, her voice close to a whisper. She knew he would never tell her how he felt towards her, pride or not, but at least she could keep him talking, discover his mind on matters such as this.

"About what?" He asked.

She was ready for this. She had been waiting for this moment since she had finished reading it. "Do you think justice was done?"

Silence. And she waited. What was he going to say, this marble man that fought for justice and freedom? What was he thinking?

"It doesn't matter what I think." He answered, "What was done was what was thought to be justice, justice of the past. My judgment cannot overrule it."

Eponine tried to surpass a groan. Why not give her a straight answer?

"That isn't what I meant, Enjolras, and you know it." She said, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. She didn't mean to spoke so curtly. But she went on, "Do you believe Arnaud should have been sentenced to death for his crime?"

Enjolras did not speak, but instead turned his attention back to the floor. He was thinking, a good sign.

"I believe Arnaud should not have been executed." She said, unconcerned whether or not he cared for her opinion, "He took the place of a neglectful husband and cherished Bertrande as a wife should be. He committed fraud to care for a woman that wasn't his, but he could claim as his own. And she welcomed him. His only crime was loving her. He shouldn't have been hanged for it."

Enjolras scoffed, "He was an imposter, Eponine. He was not Martin Guerre. He deceived the family for a woman. He was a sham, and he was foolish."

"So you believe justice was served? You believe his punishment was just, was right?" She countered, smiling to herself. She had him. He was speaking.

"I didn't say that," Enjolras snapped quickly, "I said he was a fool."

"But you believe he deserved to die." It wasn't a question.

His eyes flashed as if her words had stung him. Enjolras sighed and stood, "Think before you speak, Eponine. Don't put words in my mouth."

And just like that he fled to his room, his book still tucked in his arm.

"Enjolras—" It was too late, he had closed the door before she could speak.

She sighed, slightly frustrated that he had left so abruptly before she could get an honest answer out of him. She leaned back into the sofa and reflected over their brief conversation. It was human. It was a human discussion with human emotions. She saw in him the curiosity, thoughtfulness, his well-known passion and interest. Though she did most of the talking, he fascinated, and he listened; for a moment they shared their thoughts. For once, it wasn't awkward with simple, insipid banter. It was a true talk that left neither angry or confused and for the most part, almost content. Eponine smiled. Maybe she could get through and connect to him. Maybe she will get to see the human side of Enjolras. Maybe he will let her see. Maybe, just maybe, he will let her in.


	8. Chapter 8

_His excuse to her was that there wasn't enough space in his room to work. When Eponine had checked, there were papers and books overflowing the his work desk and even covering his bed along with bunches of crumpled paper in the waste basket. Enjolras had taken his work into the dining room, spreading himself all over the table, scribbling furiously, muttering to himself as he went._

_Eponine sat on the couch, struggling to read a book she had plucked from the bookshelf. She frowned into it as Enjolras' mumbles grew louder before casting a glare at him though he didn't notice. He continued to scrap sentences onto the paper, his brow creased, his eyes focused and unyielding as words tumbled from his mouth in whispers._

_It was a rather brisk night, and Eponine dared not leave the warmth of the fire no matter how much Enjolras annoyed her. She turned her attention to the flames before her, watching as they licked and devoured the wood, burning the chard bits to ash. She tried to regain her focus and did her best to move forward in her book, but with Enjolras' speaking to himself, the hypnotic fire, and the very difficulty of the book, it proved to be a very strenuous task._

_Minutes ticked by, and she hadn't noticed that Enjolras had stopped writing and was actually staring at her from across the room._

"_He didn't deserve to die." He said._

_Eponine nearly jumped at the sound of his voice and turned to him, "What?"_

_He rolled his eyes; he hated repeating himself, "Martin didn't deserve to die."_

_Oh yes, the court case. Finally he was giving his answer. And willingly too!_

"_Then tell me what you think." Eponine said plainly, trying to hide the fact that she really was interested in his opinion._

_Eponine thought she could see his eyes flicker with passion, but disregarded it as a trick the fire cast on him. His eyes were as cold as they always were._

"_Pansette committed fraud; there is no doubt of that. He wanted to take Martin's share of the money and land. But aside from that, he took care of a family that was abandoned by the father. Any righteous man should—would do such a thing."_

"_Would you Enjolras?" Eponine asked._

_She could see her question caught him off guard but for only a moment._

"_Yes." He paused, "But only that. I would never subject myself to love like Pansette did."_

_She smirked and muttered, "Of course not."_

A month had gone by since then. It was now late September and fall had come The rain was relentless this time of year—a particularly cold year—and it even threatened to snow. For a week now, Eponine had been feeling uncomfortable at work and it grew each dare as the once friendly faces she knew began to glare at her like a sinner. Even the friends she had made at the workplace turned on her. They no longer smiled and greeted her but simply turned away from her, their faces dripping with disgust. But dear Eponine should be used to this sort of behavior, this alienation and scorns of hatred. No, the few months in Rennes had spoiled the once hard and cautious Eponine.

"Eponine!" The foreman called as she worked vigorously on repairing the broken sowing machine.

"Oui, Monsieur," she immediately stopped what she was doing and walked over to him, panting as she did.

He was a tall man, balding at the crown though enough of that same faded brown hair was spread all across his jaw, chin, and upper lip. He stared down on her with the same cold eyes as the rest of the workers. Eponine could feel her insides flutter in concern and fear. What had she done wrong?

"Monsieur—" He rose his hand, silencing her.

"I can no longer stand by and let you work here. You and what you do, it is prohibited in this factory, in any factory." He said.

Her heart began to pound against her chest. He was firing her. For what? She found it difficult to breathe.

"Monsieur," Her voice quivered, "For whatever I have done to offend you, please forgive me. I will work harder—"

"This isn't what you've done to me," He told her, irritation and repulsion seeping from his lips, "It is what you do at night, spreading your legs for all of the men in Rennes."

He spat at her feet.

Eponine's heart dropped, "Monsieur, I assure you, it is only a rumor! I am not a prostitute. Whoever told you is lying!"

She looked about her for anyone, any worker or friend, someone willing to stand by her side and speak up. Anyone to say it wasn't true!

No one stirred but instead, pretended as if they couldn't hear the conversation before them.

"Get out." Said the foreman sternly.

Eponine shook her head, fighting the tears in her eyes.

He grabbed her by her arm, squeezing her hard. She fought against his grip, shouting and pulling as he dragged her to the door.

"It isn't true! Monsieur!" She pleaded as he tossed her into the street, keeping with him her day's pay.

Eponine had gone cold with fear. The whole factory thought she was a prostitute. Did all of Rennes assume that too? And because of this rumor, she could no longer hold a job in the city. What was she to do? Hate and anger boiled within her. Who was she to blame?

Minutes passed as she took in the gravity of her loss and such distressing news. Did Enjolras know about this? How was she to tell him that she was fired because of such a rumor? What will he do to her? Cast her out? Call her a whore along with the rest of the city? She tried to shake the thought. Eponine looked around to get her bearings, staring at faces that didn't stare back. That was when a short, old man in a top hat walking toward her caught her eye. His nose and cheeks were rosy against wrinkled skin. He had a white beard and gentleman's face. He smiled at her. Eponine quickly regained her composure and approached the old man, and when he was close enough, pretended to trip, intentionally bumping into him. She quickly slipped her delicate fingers into his black coat and fished out his wallet that was inside without the ignorant fool noticing.

"Excuse-moi Monsieur," she said politely, hiding the wallet behind her back as she steadied herself.

"Careful now Mademoiselle." He said with a slight chuckle and a smile, "Don't need a young girl like you getting hurt."

He tipped his hat to her and went on his merry way. Eponine swiftly disappeared into the crowd and turned the corner out of sight. The wallet had only a 20 sous in it. She frowned in frustration. What would 20 sous get her?

The sun had just set in the west, and Enjolras was pacing in aggravation when Eponine walked in. He glowered at her, his eyes fierce and frightening, but she didn't care. She had three bottles of alcohol in her hands and even as she swayed, her eyes were just as defiant.

"Why are you drunk?" He asked in a tone that surprised himself. His face had softened at the sight of her.

She glared at him and walked over to sit on the sofa, "I don't want to talk to you."

"You have no choice!" In less than three strides his was face to face with her, "I'm not in a particularly good mood either, but I don't come home like Grantaire!"

She gave him a look of confusion. He forgot she didn't know his friends except for Marius.

"Why are you drunk?" He asked again, much more forceful that time.

She didn't speak; instead she took a long chug of whatever alcohol she was drinking and stared down at the floor. She chewed her lip, and Enjolras could see she wasn't going to answer. He curled his hands into fists.

"Maybe is it because the whole town thinks you're a whore?" Venom was laced in the words he spoke.

Eponine looked up at him, surprised and shocked. He watched her gulp. She looked like she was struggling to speak. Her eyes were full of shame.

"How did you know?" She whispered.

"So you are a whore." He was filled with utter revulsion.

"No! It's a lie!" She shouted and then hesitated. "I—I haven't done that since Paris," She admitted, her eyes never leaving his, "I'm not a prostitute. I told the foreman, but he didn't believe me. He fired me."

"How did you get the money for that?" Enjolras gestured to the drinks.

"He paid me for the day before I left." She said.

Enjolras stared down at her skeptically. He had been living with her for months now, surely he would have seen or heard her sneak out. But all of Rennes is convinced she's a prostitute. Was he so wrong in his judgment of Eponine?

He sighed, took a few steps and turned away from her, "My manager wouldn't give me the promotion he promised me because of the rumors floating around about you. He believes it's bad for business. He said he wouldn't fire me but instead cut my earnings."

"He shouldn't punish you because of the things people say about me." Eponine said. There was so much sadness in her voice.

The room was silent for a few moments. Enjolras could feel Eponine's eyes on him, and he chewed the inside of his cheek and shifted his weight, feeling uncomfortable. Even though he lived with her, she's still a woman after all. A woman that he hardly knew that could very well be a prostitute. He shook away the thought. Eponine said she wasn't. But how could he believe her?

"Here." Enjolras turned to see Eponine's arm stretched out to him with a filled bottle of alcohol in her hand. He stared at it for a bit. He had never had a drink before; he never wanted to even before the revolution. But all that was over and things were different, harder. Disregarding his moral beliefs and needing some way to forget, he took the bottle from Eponine who smiled up at him.

He took a sip, feeling the warm liquid slide down his throat and into his empty stomach, heating his insides. The beverage had a disgusting flavor and seemed to worsen the more he drank it. After five decent sips, he was starting to feel the effects. Eponine snickered at him, and he in turn shot a glare at her.

"You're the last thing I want to deal with right now." He snapped.

She stood to her feet, a smile gracing her face for a moment before it slipped away as if an unhappy thought shot that lovely smile down. She headed for the door of her room but stopped and faced him. He stared at her, confused. Her eyes were so miserable. He thought she was going to break down in front of him. He hoped not.

"Believe me, Enjolras. I may be many things, but here in Rennes I am not a whore." She then turned, her hand on the door from and head hung down.

He thought she was going to say something more, but instead she closed the door behind her.


End file.
